


I just made you up to hurt myself

by crookedspoon



Series: Trope Bingo [24]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Character Death, Choking, Homophobic Language, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, POV Joseph Kavinsky, POV Second Person, Rape, Verbal Humiliation, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: You parted as enemies on opposing lines, finger-gun to forehead, rage and rejection and a promise to end the other. Unless he's begged you on his knees to take him back, there's not one scenario in which you'd wind up back in your basement together with the real Lynch.Conclusion: You must have dreamed this one.





	I just made you up to hurt myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taeru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeru/gifts).



> Fills "Dark Fic" at trope-bingo round 5.
> 
> Many thanks to Neurotoxia and jbird181 for the speedy beta! Soundtrack for this is [Tool - Prison Sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5sIXUbMgF0).
> 
> Bro, I totally forgot to gift this to you xD I don't remember if I ever mentioned this idea to you, but it was one of the very first I had, so I'm sure I must have. Anyway, enjoy the heartbreak!

There's a rip inside you when you wake, like the tail end of a car crash, one you weren't there to witness but that happened to settle in your bones nonetheless. Everything hurts. Consciousness pieces itself together, sense by aching sense. You're overheated, your mouth dry, your nose clogged. Whatever surface you're lying on is uncomfortable but warm and it gives. At least you didn't come to on a bathroom floor again. That's a step up from last time.

Small mercies.

You wish for a shot of whiskey to give the world another spin, and a cigarette to chase the burn down your throat. Phlegm congests it. You cough.

You're hot and sticky with sweat; you crashed in your clothes again, jeans, shoes, sunglasses and all. That's convenient. That way, you may not have to get up and search for pills or plastic bags. You can just pat down your pockets.

Except, there's a weight on you that prevents your right arm from moving. You think it might be Proko who's passed out on you again, the lazy, uncoordinated fucker. The weight stirs when you elbow it. You throw your shades to the side and rub your eyes, because fuck, you're hallucinating and you haven't had any mushrooms for breakfast yet.

It's not Proko.

Shit.

Your memory is blank, and there's nothing in it to suggest how you could have ended up here. That's not so unusual. What's unusual is the face staring down at you.

Lynch's smirk is meaner than anything, certainly meaner than any expression that's graced his face so far. By a long shot. 

You parted as enemies on opposing lines, finger-gun to forehead, rage and rejection and a promise to end the other. Unless he's begged you on his knees to take him back, there's not one scenario in which you'd wind up back in your basement together with the real Lynch. And even if he had begged you (and you would remember that, no matter how fucked up you were, wouldn't you? Wishful thinking. That's not how blackouts work), he wouldn't look at you that way. 

Conclusion: You must have dreamed this one. Fuck, there's no other explanation. 

You just stare, marveling at the detail you imbued him with. Maybe he's your best creation yet, but you can't remember having stolen him. It can't be the real one, can it?

Your fingers steal over his shoulder to the back of his neck, where they splay across bristles and sinews. If he's real, he's going to resent that. Your chest is a hollow drum, amplifying an erratic beat.

"Fag," he spits and hauls you up by your throat. That's not even his word. If you needed anymore proof that this Lynch is a copy, he throws you against the nearest wall and chokes you harder, a razor smile on his face. (Although can you really be sure the real Lynch wouldn't do that?) The popcorn machine beside you rattles. 

You can't breathe, but you're too fascinated to care. All that rage, it's beautiful. You've created a perfect copy of Ronan Lynch – perfect down to its cuticles, yet with fewer inhibitions. This Lynch _wants_ you. 

Dead.

Laughter tickles your insides and although your body is shaking with the need for it, barely a sound escapes, safe for the wet gurgling of your throat.

"As I thought," the copy says and shoves his thigh up between your legs. "You're getting off on this."

Fuck. You hadn't noticed you were popping a boner, but there it is and this Lynch won't let you live that down.

"Slut." 

The punch to your face seems to come out of nowhere. You were utterly unprepared for it. He hits you again and lets you go, lets you sink to your knees, coughing and cowering and _gulping_ in lungfuls of air, feeling like a loser for your body's need of oxygen. 

You glare up at him but your mouth is a smirk. So he thinks you're getting off on that? Better than thinking you're a pussy. (It shouldn't matter what it thinks. It's just a copy and you'll have to be getting rid of it soon, but part of you is blinded by its facade. Part of you cannot deny this copy's place in the world. If you did that, you'd be denying Proko's too, and that's something you can't do. Proko is as real as you make him, and you _need_ for him to be real. Your guilt would pick you clean if he wasn't.)

The copy – Lynch – grins at you and squashes your nose against the bulge in his pants. Your fingers dig into his thighs to steady yourself. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You're torn up about this. You never wanted to think about how much you've been craving this, but now that a willing Lynch is practically offering it to you, it's the hardest thing to deny yourself any longer. Even if it's not the real Lynch and you have no way of knowing if there's some sort of connection between the two. They could be sharing a psychic link so that the real Lynch is aware of what his copy is doing right now. Or so that its experiences would be transferred to him upon its death.

You better stop right there. You're getting paranoid.

Whatever. Kill your brain. You're not a professor of metaphysics or some shit.

You train your eyes on him while one hand palms him through his jeans, daring him to flinch away. Your heart is spasming like it does on your vilest high, shredding itself with anxiety and euphoria.

"I should have known you're a whore for this, K."

He smacks your cheek, the one that's already hurting, and your head twists to the side. Your dick jumps, too. Touching the side of your mouth, you wipe some spittle away and can't help scowling. You resent what this is doing to you. Your breath is coming in unsteady bursts, your joints are liquefying, and your boner is pulsing with heat.

Before you can gather your senses, your nose meets his inseam again. A shudder ripples down your spine as his fingers card through your hair. Sharp pain manifests itself when he fists a handful to hold you steady and rub his clothed erection against your face.

"Go on," he says and yanks your head back. "I know you're aching for a taste."

Fuck. You're salivating too much to form a reply. This copy has taken the script right out of your head and is using your own words against you. If your roles had been reversed, you'd be saying the exact same thing.

You swallow, hard.

"Fuck you, asshole," you say but your voice is raw, giving you away. "You can't make me."

His smile widens and he shifts forward, leaning into your face and from his muscle shirt you catch a whiff of a cologne you know intimately but had forgotten about, more Givenchy than Hugo Boss.

"Wanna try me?" he asks, pleasantly, but you don't hear him.

Your breath creeps out of you and fails to come back. Your whole body freezes. _This isn't happening._

You stare straight ahead, eyes unfocused, and don't notice he's unzipping until the tip of his cock is rubbing against your lips and teeth.

You don't move.

He slaps you again.

"Be a good slut and open up."

His fingers help you, clamping around your jaw and wrenching it down. It's not like you're fighting it. You're too tense for this sort of control.

The moment your teeth part, he hooks his thumb into the soft flesh beneath your tongue and pushes your mandible down farther. 

"Keep your teeth in check, princess," he says and plunges into your mouth.

Even if you've wanted to take him (and under different circumstances you might have), you can't. You _can't._ Everything inside you is rebelling against this, rebelling against your own paralysis, how you stay down on your knees and just take it. Your mind is at once racing and drawing blanks.

You gag around him, eyes wide, chest straining for air, fingers clawing into his jeans, as your body convulses. Your throat squelches, trying to shut him out, but he pushes in further, without mercy or concern, stabbing the back of your throat, over and over, until it can no longer take the abuse and your jerking stomach pumps acid into your mouth. It bursts from your lips, spills onto his shoes, your wrist, the floor, and he drops you so fast you nearly land face-first in it. 

You cough and shudder violently and your body continues clenching on nothing, wringing you out like a wet dish rag. Spit is dribbling from your bruised lips. Your esophagus burns, your eyes sting, your muscles ache. All you want to do is curl up and forget this ever happened. In the morning you'll think it was a drug-induced nightmare, willfully ignoring all evidence to the contrary.

These things don't happen to you. You're untouchable.

"Look at you, you disgusting addict piece of shit," he sneers. A blow to your ribs sends you crashing to your side. More blows follow. You don't fend them off. It's like you're a stranger in your own body, or outside of it, watching everything unfold, dispassionate, unconcerned, mildly bored.

You don't care if he kicks you or if he stops. If he hauls you up by your hair again or if he flings you over a theater seat. If the backrest digs into your battered stomach or if your jeans suddenly trap your knees.

You know where this is going. You might have known from the start, from the first whiff of cologne, from the first tickle of memories threatening to break loose. 

You were cocky. Too convinced you'd rid yourself of this to consider that his shadow still lives inside you.

You shut down. You don't fight. If you can't win, sometimes it's easier to just let it happen. You learned that a long time ago.

Pain builds beneath your skin, but you don't feel it. It's a mood, a color, something you're just vaguely aware of, like the deep-seated fear gripping your limbs.

"Faggot." 

There it is again, your word – an heirloom from your father.

You've been silent until now, unresponsive, unmoving, but his teeth in your shoulder take you by surprise. That pain is closer somehow, harder to ignore and it seeks to pull you back into your body.

You make a sound.

"That's right, bitch. Moan for me."

To encourage you, he yanks your head to the side and bites your neck again. 

You've considered this, many times, from many different angles. It crept up on you when he was lying defenseless on the hood of that fucking car. You could have taken this from him. Part of you _wanted_ to take this from him. The temptation was there, loud and vicious and overwhelming. But you promised yourself that no matter what happens, you wouldn't follow in your father's footsteps.

You wouldn't be his legacy.

With a grunt, the copy finishes inside you, disdainfully, as if you made him do something unpalatable against his will. The thought is shockingly amusing, yet your mind is too remote from your body to express its mirth in laughter.

You're suddenly cold when he withdraws and a shiver threatens to break you. You're not ready to inhabit your body again. Wetness rolls down your thigh. Sweat prickles your forehead, slicks your hair against your skin. Pins and needles run up your spine. Your body is heavy, cumbersome, and it stinks.

Curiously, the sound of his zipper pulls you together again.

By the time you find your feet, he has walked over to the shelf and is checking out your porn collection.

"Get me a beer," he says.

Slowly, with shuffling feet, you drag yourself over to the popcorn machine. It's time to retrieve something you stashed there a little while ago. Something cool and heavy and reassuring. It is this you carry back to the copy, not bothering with his beer. You wonder if the copy could have dreamed itself a bottle.

You're insubstantial when you walk up behind him. All your weight is in your arm as you lift the gun to the back of his head. All the sounds in the universe mute to the ticking of the safety you release and the throbbing in your chest. All the moments throughout history boil down to this one point in time.

"I'm not your fucking victim anymore, _dad,_ " you say and pull the trigger. The shot is deafening and definite. His brain explodes onto your face and spatters the DVD cases and the wall behind them. That's going to be a bitch to clean. "Don't come back this time."

You'll see him in hell, sooner or later.

The body crumples to the floor, staring up with lifeless blue eyes and a hole in its forehead.

You stare down at it, equally lifeless, with a hole where no one can see. Empty, absolved, dissolving.

You flick the safety back on and let the gun clatter to the floor. It slips easily from your grasp. Your fingers are wet with blood.

You stare at them, through them, at the corpse beneath. It was never a real person to begin with, but your forgeries are impeccable. Indistinguishable from the original. In a way, it's like you just killed Lynch.

Your anger at him has fizzled to nothing. For a moment, you're that scared kid again, frightened and panicking, because you've done a terrible thing to save your skin.

Through the high-pitched whining in your ears, one thought circles round and round in your head: _Not again. Not again, not again, not again._

It's different this time, you tell yourself. It's different. This is a dream body you killed, this is not the real thing. The original is still out there, you did nothing wrong. In fact, you did the only thing you could do. This was not a creation you could have let loose on the world. Under different circumstances, it might have been a real hoot. Under these, however, you're sick and jittery and when you laugh, it's not because the thought is funny.

A dark pool begins advancing on your shoes, so you step back and pick up your phone. Not a single key sound makes it through the cotton in your ears as you type your message. You leave bloody thumbprints on your screen.

_drop everything and come over_

You're bone-tired, and you _hurt._ You could dream yourself some Vicodin but you never want to sleep again. You don't know what creatures you'd be bringing back with you next time.

You wince as you settle into one of the cushioned seats and you add, _bring sth 4 the pain_

Prokopenko's reply is a light in your darkness: _omw. what happened?_

Instead of answering, you stare straight ahead, fingers curled protectively around your phone.

He sends a question mark.

You type an answer, but can't bring yourself to send it. Your search for alternatives comes up empty. This is as concise as you get. It's also as weak as you get. But why should it matter? You're already broken, and it's nothing you can hide from him once he gets here. So why keep up the pretense? Why does it matter what he thinks?

You hit send and close your eyes.

 _need u,_ your message reads.

You startle when your phone rings.

" _Shit, K, you're scaring me._ " He pauses, inviting you to say something. " _You there? Come on, give me a life sign, man. Picking up your phone ain't good enough._ "

"I'm here," you say, but your voice is barely a croak.

" _I'll be right over. Just a minute. Don't hang up, okay? Whatever you do, don't hang up. Whatever it is, we'll get through this together, you and me, you hear?_ "

"Yeah," is all you say. It's all you need to say.

Proko keeps babbling as if he feared you'd perish if he stopped. He tries to reassure you, he curses other drivers on the road, he promises he's going to be there soon.

His voice is an anchor. For now, you don't have to think about disposing of the body and cleaning up the basement. You don't think about setting the house, and yourself, on fire.

For now, you just rest your head on your knees and you listen.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Only" by Nine Inch Nails.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, I can be found on [tumblr](crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com). :)


End file.
